Crisscross

  “What else am I gonna do? I was a frosh at CCNY when I caught the hacking bug and dropped out. I know one thing, man, and I’m not allowed to use it. Shit, I’m not even allowed to work in Circuit City. And I need money for tuition.”

  “Tuition?”

  “Yeah, I gotta look like I’m bettering myself, so I’m taking courses back at CCNY. Started as an English major, so I figure I’ll go back to that, look like I’m trying for a degree. Makes my parole officer happy, at least.”

  “But not you.”

  He shook his head. “Taking a lit course. Now I know why I dropped out. Prof’s got us wasting our time reading Marcel Marceau.”

  Jack blinked. “Um, Marcel Marceau was a mime. A man of few words, you might say.”

  “Well, then, Marcel somebody. Long-winded guy—zillions of words about nothing. The most boring shit you’ve ever read.” He shook his head again. “My life sucks.”

  “If you’re trying to break my heart, it worked. Five hundred for the disk. Half down, half when I know it did the job.”

  Russ’s face broke open with a big grin. “I’ll have it for you tonight. Jack, you just made my day!”

  Deadpan, Jack reached for his wallet. “That’s me. Jackie Sunshine. It’s what I’m about. I live for moments like this.”

  3

  Jack didn’t feel completely naked walking through town without at least one weapon hidden somewhere on his person, merely stripped to his underwear. At the stroke of noon he arrived at The Light offices, just west of Times Square. A peek through the glass doors of the front entrance made him glad he wasn’t carrying. Jamie Grant hadn’t been kidding: An armed guard and a metal detector waited just inside.

  After confirming that John Robertson was expected, the guard passed him through the detector without a hitch. He was told to wait until someone from editorial came to escort him up.

  Soon a heavyset woman with short, curly ginger hair and a puffy face showed up and extended her hand. Jack immediately recognized the voice.

  “Robertson? Jamie Grant.”

  As they shook hands, Jack checked her out: Early forties, about five-five, a large chest and bulky torso but thin arms and legs. She wore a loose white blouse over dark brown slacks. Small gold earrings, thin gold necklace, no rings. Her eyes were bloodshot and she smelled like an ashtray. Other than that she was a dream girl.

  “Thanks for meeting me.” He handed her one of the Robertson cards, then jerked a thumb at the metal detector. “I’d thought you might be kidding. Why the high security?”

  “It’s new. We’ve got an ongoing threat situation here. The Light pisses off a lot of people, so we’re always getting one kind of threat or another. But nothing like what’s come in since my Dormentalism article.” She flashed a nicotine-stained smile. “I now hold the death-threat record. Hallelujah.” She turned and motioned him to follow. “Let’s retire to my boudoir.”

  She led him to a messy little third-floor office that looked like it had been trashed by burglars on PCP. Books, magazines, newspapers, printouts everywhere. As she lifted an elastic-bound pile of papers off a chair, Jack noticed that her right pinkie was only a stub—the last two bones were missing.

  She dropped the papers on the floor. “Have a seat.”

  Grant plopped into the chair behind her littered desk and lit a cigarette. Jack noticed how the skin on her right index and middle fingers was the color of rotten lemon rind, but then his gaze drifted again to the pinkie stub. On the way in he’d seen one of those This Is a No Smoking Building signs but didn’t bother to mention it now. He couldn’t imagine her caring.

  “So,” she said, leaning back and blowing a long stream into the air, “you say you’re on the trail of a missing Dementedist.”

  Without using names, Jack went over everything Maria Roselli had told him about Johnny.

  Her smile was wry as she shook her head. “And you think you’re going to find sonny boy by joining the church? Forget it—unless of course you’re willing to spend lots of years and lots of bucks.”

  “How so?”

  “You’ll enter as an RC, the lowest of the low, and you’ll have to climb pretty far up the FL before you can get close enough to the TO to sneak a peek at any membership files.”

  Jack twisted a finger into his right ear. “I thought we were speaking English here.”

  Grant laughed. “Dormentalese. They use initials for everything. I’ll translate: You’ll enter as a Reveille Candidate, and you’ll have to climb a good way up the Fusion Ladder before you can get close enough to the Temple Overseer.”

  Jack realized he had more to learn than he’d thought.

  “And the ‘lots of bucks’?”

  “This is what you’ve got to realize about the Dementedist situation: The church is set up to squeeze every last dollar from its members. They promise self-realization, maximization of potential—the goals of a million self-help books—but they go beyond that. At the end of their rainbow is a supernatural pot of gold. But there’s one major catch: You can’t do it alone. You need to become a member of the Church, you need Dementedist guides to help you along the ten rungs of the ladder to ‘Full Fusion.’”

  “That would be FF, I assume?”

  “Keerect. The Fusion Ladder—that’s the steps it takes to fuse your xelton with its Hokano counterpart—started out with five rungs, then it went to seven, now it’s ten. The instruction sessions, the books, the tapes, and all the other paraphernalia for each new rung cost more than the last. The FAs—that’s Fusion Aspirants—are promised increasing powers as they advance along the FL. And then there’s the big carrot of Full Fusion where you’re promised to be transformed into some sort of demigod.”

  “Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound?”

  “Pretty much. But Dementedism differs from most religions in one important respect: Yeah, it offers everlasting happiness, but it has no good and evil, no good god versus bad god, no Jesus and Satan, no yin and yang. You’ve been separated from your Hokano xelton, so you can’t expect perfection. If you’ve failed in the past, it’s not your fault. All you need do is weather the long process of fusing the two halves of your xelton and your problems will be over. You’ll go from homo sap to homo superior.”

  “‘Not your fault.’ I can see how that would go over big.”

  “Yeah, the everyone-is-a-victim zeitgeist has swelled their ranks. But it can cost you about a quarter mil before you’re through. To reach the High Council you’ve got to achieve the tenth level of fusion…hardly anyone gets past the eighth unless they’re very rich, very determined, and more than a little crazy. Members get so wrapped up in the FL situation they take out second and third mortgages on their homes to finance the climb. The ones who don’t have any assets either go out and recruit new members or mortgage themselves to the church as volunteers.”

  “What does that do for them?”

  “Helps them pay the fees for their current FL rung. But they receive discounts instead of cash. They also get discounts for every new member they bring in.”

  “Sounds like a Ponzi scheme, or multilevel marketing.”

  Jamie nodded. “Amway as religion. Headhunters and staff workers paid in a currency not subject to withholding, Social Security, or Medicare deductions.”

  “Nice.”

  “But there’s a more sinister side to it. Not only does this serfdom situation keep you in almost constant contact with other Dementedists—thereby reducing exposure to conflicting opinions—but the church works the volunteers till they drop, knowing full well that exhaustion makes people more susceptible to suggestion.”

  “They sound like swell folks. Is that why you’re after them?”

  Jack saw Grant stiffen. He sensed a door slamming closed.

  “Is this conversation about Dementedism or me?”

  “Demen—Dormentalism, of course, but I was just—”

  “Just nothing! None of this is about me! And I swear, if they sent you here on a fishing e
xpedition—”

  Whoa, Jack thought. I do believe I’ve touched a nerve.

  He held up his hands. “Hey, hey, easy. I’m not after you and I’m not after Dormentalism. I just want to find sonny boy.”

  She seemed to relax, but just a little. Jack realized she was stretched tight. Scared.

  “Sorry for sounding paranoid, but you don’t know what it’s been like since that article came out. Phone calls—I had to change my home number—threats, lawsuits, people following me, every type of harassment you can imagine.”

  “You’re not paranoid if they’re really after you.”

  “Oh, they are. When I applied for membership I gave a phony name and address. Didn’t take long before they found out. They designated me UP—that’s Unwelcome Person—and kicked me out. But with that article I graduated to what’s known as a Wall Addict—”

  “That would be a WA?”

  “Right. But I’m not just a WA, I’m also IS—In Season. That’s an ‘enemy of the Church’ and fair game for all their smear tactics. They use character assassination to try to discredit you privately and professionally, and they’re ruthless. And now I hear that some person or persons unknown have been prying into my personal situation—financials, past relationships, hell, even the movies I rent. That’s why you see so few investigative pieces on Dementedism. Reporters and editors are afraid of the shit storms that follow.”

  “But not The Light.”

  She allowed a tight little smile. “No. Not The Light. That’s why I stick with the small-time weekly—formerly small-time, I should say. Those exclusives we had on the Savior last June bumped our circulation and it’s stayed up.”

  Jack wondered what she’d do if she knew she was talking to the so-called Savior.

  “I’ve had offers from every other paper in town, plus the Washington Post and Times, even the San Francisco Chronicle, but this is where I stay. And you know why? Because The Light isn’t afraid of anyone. It’s not in the pocket of some larger corporation that’s always trying to cover its ass. George Meschke’s a tough son of a bitch of an editor, but he’s fearless. Oh, he makes damn sure you’ve got your facts straight and your sources lined up, but if that’s all copacetic, then he goes to press.”

  “He still behind you after the suits and threats?”

  She nodded. “He’s a human bulldog. He doesn’t let go.” She pointed at Jack and he noticed how her pinkie stuck up. “But you—” She must have spotted his stare; she pointed the stub straight at him. “Can’t keep your eyes off it, can you. I’ll answer your unasked question: boating accident eight years ago. Outboard propeller. Satisfied?”

  “Hey, I wasn’t—”

  “Yeah, sure.” She switched to her index finger as a pointer. “Anyway, I’ve got George and the paper to watch my back, but you’re just one guy. For your own good, my advice is stay away.”

  “Can’t do that.”

  “Listen, I told you: You’re not going to find anything, and you risk making nasty enemies.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time. I’ve managed to tick off a few people in my day.”

  “Not like these, you haven’t. These aren’t just a bunch of kooks—kooks believe their nonsense, charlatans don’t. Bottom-rung, true-believer Dementedists qualify as kooks, but the charlatans at the top have got tons of money, a shark tank full of lawyers, and a huge number of volunteers who will be only too glad to ruin your career, your reputation, even your marriage—if you’re married. They’re tenacious, relentless, vicious. Have you got a life situation that will stand up to a gang of pros and amateurs peeking into every corner of it?”

  Got to find me first, Jack thought.

  But the idea of a well-financed horde prying at his life, uncovering his secrets—he had so many—made him edgy. More than edgy…

  “That would make me very upset,” he told her.

  Something in his tone must have caught her attention. She stared at him for a long moment.

  “Are you saying you’re not a nice person when you’re upset?”

  “I’m saying I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me the mistakes you made that got you kicked out.”

  She lit another cigarette. “Are you fucking deaf? I’m telling you, you can’t move high enough up the ladder to get access to membership records.”

  “I think I might have a way to, shall we say, accelerate my progress.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “How?”

  Jack wagged a finger at her. “Trade secret.”

  Her face darkened. “After all I’ve just given you?”

  “You tell me what you know and what I should avoid, and when this is all over I’ll tell you how I got in, what I saw, and what I learned—just you.”

  “An exclusive,” she said, leaning back. “Maybe.”

  That surprised Jack.

  “Maybe? You’ve got something better?”

  A little cat smile here. “Maybe…maybe a lot better.” The smile faded. “And maybe not. Okay. I’ll trust you—to an extent. I can tell you that the intake procedure is pretty straightforward: Just fill out the forms.”

  “A church has forms?”

  “It’s only legally a church. In real life it’s a closely held corporation with a CEO and a board of directors, although they don’t call themselves that. I’ve poked at many religions and cults, but no one’s come after me like the Dementedist Church. That’s because it’s not a church, it’s a for-profit behemoth.”

  “I’ve gathered that. But do they ID you on day one?”

  “No. You don’t have to show ID then and there—that would create a cloud in the relentlessly sunny atmosphere they like to present—but they’ll run a background check on you within a day or two. That’s how I got caught. After filling out the forms—one of those, believe it or not, is an NDA—”

  “More Dormentalese?”

  “No. That’s a common business practice—a non-disclosure agreement. After signing that you’ll be asked, very pointedly, to make a donation to the temple and pay for your first Reveille Session in advance.”

  “What happens there?”

  “The supposed purpose of Reveille is to wake up your sleeping xelton so you can start the fusion process. It’s really a cover for the RT—Reveille Tech—to pry out the most intimate details of your life. These go into a file that will be used against you should you turn against the church.”

  “That’s it? We sit and play Q and A?”

  Grant gave him the full smile this time, stained teeth and all. “Oh, no. There’s so much more to it than that.”

  “Like what?”

  “You’ll see, you’ll see.”

  Jack wasn’t sure he liked the way she said it.

  She reached into a drawer and took out a couple of sheets of paper.

  “Take a look at these,” she said, handing them across. “It’s a list of the Dementedist hierarchy and all their abbreviations. Some are my work, some come right out of the church bulletins and newsletters. I’ve stuck in a few comments here and there.”

  Jack took the sheets and scanned them.

  Cooper Blascoe—Prime Dormentalist (PD)

  Luther Brady—Supreme Overseer (SO) and APD (Acting PD)

  High Council (HC)

  Grand Paladin (GP)

  President of the Council of Continental Overseers (PCCO)

  Continental Overseer (CO)

  Regional Overseer (RO)

  Temple Overseer (TO)

  Temple Paladin (TP)

  Fusion Aspirant (FA)

  Fusion Initiate (FI)

  Reveille Candidate (RC)

  Null (N)

  NB: Cooper Blascoe was the first PD with Luther Brady as his SO. When Blascoe went into suspended animation, Brady took over PD duties while retaining the SO position.

  Jack looked up. “Oh, yeah. I meant to ask about this suspended animation thing. What’s up with that?”

  “He was in such close contact with his xelton that he’s immortal, and put himself into a stat
e of suspended animation to await the Great Fusion.”

  “No, really.”

  “You’re a big boy: Read between the lines.”

  Jack shrugged. “He’s dead, right?”

  “He was on in years. You can’t have the founder of an apocalyptic cult die before the apocalypse. So he doesn’t die, he goes into suspended animation to wait for it.”

  “In Tahiti?”

  “That was where he was living. Probably where he’s buried.”

  Jack sensed a lack of conviction on her part.

  “What’s a paladin?”

  “Security.” Grant jetted a stream of smoke from the corner of her mouth. “Think of them as the Dementedist KGB. The Grand Paladin’s name is Jensen; he’s their Beria.”

  “Sounds ominous.”

  “He is.”

  Jack read on.

  Other Designations:

  Fusion Ladder (FL)—The progressive steps ascending toward FF.

  Fusion Aspirant (FA)—One who has passed through the FI stage and has started to ascend the FL.

  Full Fusion (FF)—One who has ascended the FL all the way to the top and achieved complete fusion of both xelton halves.

  Null (N)—A member of the unfortunate 7.5 percent of humanity who houses a xelton that cannot be awakened. A certain number of FAs do not learn until they are far along the FL that they are nulls and have been experiencing SF.

  Sham Fusion (SF)—When a null FA’s desire for fusion is so great that they enter a state of denial, believing they are achieving levels of fusion when they are not. This is a tragic occurrence.

  Xelton Name (XN)—When the FA reaches the fifth level, his TO will be able to discern the name of his or her xelton. The name always contains a double-o.

  Lapsed Fusion Aspirant (LFA) (unofficially called a “lapser”)—An FA who progresses well, then exhibits sudden LFP (see below) tendencies. A meeting with the local temple’s Fusion Progress Review Board (FPRB) is mandatory; punishment must be accepted or the LFA will be designated DD.

  Low Fusion Potential (LFP)—This can be anyone deemed too skeptical, too questioning, not accepting enough. Although it’s highly unlikely they’ll ever achieve FF, they are allowed to take the courses but are closely monitored.